


Soft Eyes Make My Body Shake

by lookingfortherainbow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Biting, Bodily Fluids, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Coming Untouched, Dom Dean Winchester, Dom/sub, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Extremely mild, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incest, M/M, Marking, Mention of Weecest, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Sub Sam Winchester, Violent Sex, set sometime after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29828085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingfortherainbow/pseuds/lookingfortherainbow
Summary: These days it’s rare that Dean doesn’t shove Sam’s pants down in the middle of the night with excessive force, press him so far into the mattress the bedsprings squeak and groan. And Sam is a light sleeper, whimpers awake when Dean pushes into his body with two fingers only lubricated with spit that’s filled with the heat of self-loathing.Or, Dean deals with his dad's death in an unconventional way, and Sam helps him the only way he knows how.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 167





	Soft Eyes Make My Body Shake

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy. Title's from Soft Eyes by Thomas Reid.

It’s on nights like these that Dean becomes a man of few words more than any other time in his life. 

Years ago, when Dad was still alive and spent nights in the motels with him and Sam instead of somewhere on the road, Dean had to cure this mental state of his in the quiet. Sneaking beer once Dad was passed out on the bed or couch was the least effective. Jerking off, the physical motion, the textured skin of his palm stripping the velvet skin on his prick until it was sore and raw worked a bit better. Sammy watched him sometimes, curious, confused with the wounded noises that escaped him, with how he kept his palm dry, with how Dean had tears falling from his lashes sometimes.

There were a few times he simply couldn’t risk even that. When Dad fell asleep without too many drinks in his bloodstream he was a light sleeper. So, in the dark, he’d bite his bicep so hard it’d bleed. Once, Sammy had woken up from beside him with blood trickling onto his face. 

It was that pivotal moment that they blinked at each other, Sam’s hazel eyes glistening with scarlet smeared across them, and some agreement was made. 

“Use me,” Sam had whispered. Because Sam understood. God, that boy of his, like no one else, always understood. Even if he didn’t realize it. Even if he was just blurting out whatever came to mind to get Dean to stop sinking his teeth into his own flesh in an attempt to halt the racing train of thoughts, memories, sounds that rocketed through his brain.

They had done things together before that brothers should never even dare to think of. But never, until that one night, had Dean pushed into Sam’s body like that, gripped him, maneuvered him like he was helpless prey. 

These days it’s rare that Dean  _ doesn’t _ shove Sam’s pants down in the middle of the night with excessive force, press him so far into the mattress the bedsprings squeak and groan. And Sam is a light sleeper, whimpers awake when Dean pushes into his body with two fingers only lubricated with spit that’s filled with the heat of self-loathing. Spit that sometimes ends up not being soaked up by Sam’s velvet walls but sliding down dirty mirrors that display a man Dean wants to waste more than all the demons combined. 

_ “Take it, _ you’re gonna take it,” he whispers to him now, sweat forming droplets that slide down Sam’s back as Dean follows their example and slides himself into Sam. 

He pushes in nice and easy, like a summer popsicle in-between thin, pink lips--sinful when they shouldn’t be. Snapshot, memory, another blur of color behind his eyelids.

Sam’s huffing like he just came back from one of his runs, hand gripping to the rickety headboard like it’ll actually help steady his body somehow once Dean starts thrusting. He knows to keep any words to himself, mirrors Dean’s demeanor without needing to look at his face. Which is good, because Dean’s got him on all fours, hips cradling his ass--the most primal position to match the most primal emotions that are coursing through him like straight whiskey from a bottle.

It’s a tight fit, it always is. Dean digs deep into the crevices of Sam’s hips with his fingernails, the thin skin that stretches over the oddly-shaped bones there, and shifts his knees wider. It causes Sam’s own to slip further into the ‘v’ he’s creating, and when he does, Dean pulls out and pushes back in before Sam has enough time to fully form a cry. His head bumps the headboard and that hand that has slipped from its previous position posts itself on top of it this time. 

Once Dean’s at it, he can’t slow down. 

In this state, Sam’s skin looks like honey. Dean slathers his hands in the wet of him, in his sweat that he’s the cause of, pulls and scrapes at it like if he does it enough he’ll be able to grasp onto a honeycomb. His fingernails leave behind streaks of red, fresh beside the other lines that are fading into a scarred over brown. He needs that sugar-burn of sweetness to soothe the ache that’s been turning into a piercing pain at the back of his throat. Unfortunately, no amount of laving his tongue over him quenches his hunger. This still won’t deter him from trying again and again. Jesus may have spent forty days starving himself, but Dean’s lived every day of his life not knowing when next he can taste peace. At least he’s lucky his little brother is always nearby to spill come down his throat like it’s an ointment for his wounds that are internal, far inside him where only Sam’s seed can reach. 

The room is filled with the sound of Sam’s ass slapping against the wall of Dean’s hips as he pulls and pushes, biceps straining as he heaves Sam’s pliant body onto his pulsing cock. It sounds better than the music he fills Baby with, and he’s addicted to the way it paints Sam’s pale, unblemished ass a perfectly blotchy shade. It’s prettier than the scarlet red that he saw covering young Sam’s eyes that awful night, and Dean speeds up his thrusts just to see if he can make it bloom even more. Here, this, it can make him believe the delusion that he’s capable of making something beautiful instead of always destroying, destroying, destroying. 

Using the taut flat of his palm, he slaps at the tender skin, slows down to watch himself ease in and out of Sam’s raw hole, pushes a bit of his thumb into his abused, pulsing rim just to hear his raw response, watch his disheveled hair fan out as he falls face first into the pillows. His arm is propped at an awkward angle, like he forgot to unglue it from the headboard even though it’s not serving any purpose. 

Finally, there’s an alleviation building at the base of Dean’s spine. He hasn’t tried many drugs but somehow he just knows this is better than all of them combined. His limbs are filled with electric voltages, and he shivers as he spanks Sam’s rose-red cheek thrice more. The split second sight of his handprint there drives him to cover Sam’s melting figure with his own burning body. He angles his hips so he’s humping him like a wolf in need of a litter of pups--small creatures that will be taught from a young age how to take life away because there simply isn’t any other means of survival. 

It’s too soon, and not soon enough, when Dean starts grunting, the exertion of fucking so hard pushing the noises past the lump that lies above his Adam’s apple. Sam’s scrabbling at the sheets, but his torso is caged by Dean’s arms. When he starts wheezing for air, Dean knows he’s holding him too close. Instead of freeing him, he yanks Sam’s face to the side, watches his eyes flutter open. His eyelashes are clumped together with his own salty tears, and Dean delights in the translucency of the liquid. 

“Open,” Dean growls. 

With the way he’s opening his mouth in an instant, tongue out like he’s parched, Sam puts every slutty college girl that Dean’s taken to bed to shame. Like it’s methodical, Dean’s still thrusting--sure jabs to Sam’s spot. He watches how the string of spit that’s connecting him to Sam’s lolling tongue dances with the movement of it, glistens in the shitty light of a half burnt-out bedside lamp. And then, he’s spitting forcefully, repeatedly, watches how each time Sam’s eyes scrunch closed and then open again. How each and every time they find Dean’s without searching. He’s broken open wide, and Dean’s thankful it’s relatively dark in the room. If it was any lighter, he has a feeling Sam’s tears would reflect him and what he’s feeling even through the sweaty strands of his chestnut hair.

While Dean’s been hacking up spit and grunting, Sam’s been making hoarse, wheezing sounds. For the moment it takes him to swallow Dean’s saliva down, there’s a respite from the chaotic sounds pouring from their mouths. Dean would hate it if it weren’t for how he can hear the click of Sam’s throat bobbing. He can’t help himself when he starts rubbing obsessively at Sam’s throat, Adam’s apple, pushes into where the bone of his jaw is connected to his neck with his thumb. Sam’s back to gasping, can’t get enough air, and Dean’s staring into his eyes that are holding his gaze with a gentle strength that contradicts his flattened position under Dean’s body. 

He brushes the bangs from his eyes, savors the questioning whine that slips from Sam’s lips, memorizes the uptick of his delicate eyebrows, and settles back behind him as he yanks on his hair that he’s got fisted in his palm. Such a pull forces Sam back into his original position, but this time his back is arched and his ass is propped up by his shaking knees and he’s fucking  _ begging _ for it with his body. 

Dean’s blind with tears as he slows, hips pushing in deep, slow with a shove at the end that he knows is scraping against Sam’s prostate. Nothing makes him whine like a bitch in heat more than this.

Where Dean’s hips are controlled, his upper body is unleashed. In one second he’s yanking Sammy’s hair, in the next he’s gripping at his ass cheeks. There are too many sounds coming from him and the only way to muffle them is to sink his teeth into Sam’s back, his trembling shoulders, the stretched out, strained pillar of his neck. Sam’s noises rattle through the cushion of muscles, veins, skin to make Dean’s teeth vibrate. He squeezes his eyes shut and resists the urge to try and sink into Sam’s vocal chords. He doesn’t want to rip them out, but to get his mouth around them so he can swallow down every sound, let their vibrations shake him until he’s humming with the same frequencies. 

When he comes, he never expects it, and his body trembles like he’s being tasered. Something possesses him, and Dean wouldn’t dare kill it, even if he knew what kind of monster it really was. Even if his own Dad’s actual dying command was to track it down and end it.

He’s letting the blood that’s slowly dripping from Sam’s neck stain his teeth where they’re latched on, his snot and tears soaking Sam’s already drenched skin in a messy brand that Dean never knew he’d keep needing to mark him with. He’s grappling at Sam’s body like he’s got something buried deep behind his ribs that belongs, rightfully, to Dean, like Sam can hold him up in this state. 

But he can’t. In the moment the sheets scratch against Sam’s aching cock as he collapses to the bed with Dean on top, he’s quivering and sobbing through his own orgasm. 

Sam’s blood is as warm on Dean’s tongue, as Dean’s come is inside Sam’s raw hole. As he’s convulsing through the shocks of his orgasm, Dean rubs the blood into Sam’s skin with his hand, pushes his come deeper into Sam’s opening with his still-twitching cock. 

There’ll be one hell of a clean-up after this, but when Sam’s finally coming down, Dean will make him stay in bed for a good twenty minutes at least, make him lay spent and abused as he licks up the residue of their bodily secretions, coat him from nape to tailbone in a layer of spit. 

And all the while Sammy watches him over his shoulder, with a look that Dean can never quite understand, because he doesn’t want to. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, etc are always always appreciated and loved. Follow me on [tumblr](https://andtheywerebandmates.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


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